


blue or pink?

by lamourestout



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Nail Painting, Nail Polish, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Canon, Trondheim, a bit of, that's in the past but it's residual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 08:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamourestout/pseuds/lamourestout
Summary: even's classmate paints his nails, even remembers a time when he tried to paint his nails before, and he and isak find a new way to be close to each other.





	blue or pink?

**Author's Note:**

> henrik's nail painting showing up on his and lea's ig stories has been inspiring me.  
> additionally, it's my personal hcs that even's hair looks like whatever henrik's hair looks like at any certain point in time, so this is set pretty close to present-day (probably late winter 2019) and so even's hair is getting a bit long.
> 
> even/sonja is past / flashback kind of stuff

It starts because the kid in front of him in his Intro to Media Studies class starts painting his nails about two weeks into the semester. And whenever assignments or notes or sheets of paper get passed back to him, he notices it. It starts out black, and it looks cool, and he thinks it suits the guy, who he’s talked to a little bit, in class conversations when they’re all supposed to turn to a neighbor and discuss their opinions. He’s afraid to compliment him in case it comes across as a come on, because, at the very least, he knows that he’s not _into_ this guy, he’s very much into Isak. It’s more of a distracting thought about ... what if _he_ did that?

 

 

Actually, it started when when he was 14 and he and Sonja were hanging out at her place, like they would before (and during) the time they were dating. They’d finished the Norwegian project they’d had for that week, and were just lounging around on her bed, him blushing a little as he asks her if he can play an album for them to listen, and maybe her blushing a little as he leaned over to grab her laptop, messing up his typing to switch the music. He can’t even remember what album it was, just that he couldn’t type properly, and he was glad that she let him put on something he liked. Not that he didn’t like what she was playing, but he wanted to ... show her something he liked.

She had moved across the room to go rummage through a small basket of nail polish she had on her vanity, and he was trying to not be weird about being in her room, because they’d been here a million times before, and he was pretty sure he _wasn’t_ being weird. He must not have been, because she came back over, sitting on the bed and crossing her legs, holding out two different colors of nail polish,

“Which one?”

“You want me to pick?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Baby pink or baby blue. A pause,

“The blue.” He answers, and she grins,

“You’re way quicker at picking than I am, it takes me forever to choose. I should just buy like one color, and stick with that. But it’s just so hard to resist when you can buy nail polish for so cheap, you know?” She’s talking as she reaches over to set the pink on her nightstand, and settles the blue bottle right against where her feet cross so she can hold it steady.

“No, I don’t.” He teases a little, “I’ve never bought nail polish.” Her birthday was only a few weeks away, and maybe he could buy her a whole rainbow of colors. He think that the boys would tease him for that, tease him about _liking a girl_ despite that’s what they all seem to want right now.

“Right.” Sonja replies. “It’s really cheap, you would be surprised, as long as you don’t get the fancy stuff. It’s all really the same, in the end.” She’s already halfway through the first coat on her left hand.  “You draw, right? Does that mean you have a steady hand?” She knows he draws, but he hasn’t really shown anyone anything he’s drawn, except one or two pages that he showed to Mikael.

“I draw, yeah.” She smiles at him, then, looking up from her nails,

“Great! You can help, my left hand isn’t as good at this, and I don’t want to have to spend twenty minutes getting nail polish off my skin.” He wants to laugh, to say that he couldn’t possibly do it.

“I’ll do my best.” He says, instead, and when she finishes with her left hand, she ducks the brush into the nail polish again, making sure there’s no excess that will drop onto her duvet, and then offers it to him, and he’s laughing a little because he doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to do this.

“Here.” He must look lost because she’s grabbing his free hand, moving it a bit, and letting her unpainted hand rest on top of it, and then after a moment, decides that it will work better if she stretches her fingers out a bit, and then it turns into a game of her trying to see if she can reach her fingers wide enough to span the whole length of his hand, and they’re both laughing and pretending it’s not some weird fourteen-year old way of flirting.

“Do you really want to go to school with only one hand painted?”

“Maybe it’s the new fashion, Even, it’ll be like I just came back from Paris.”

“They only paint the nails on one hand in Paris?” He can’t say he knows anything about Paris. But he’s trying his best to keep his hand as steady as it can be to paint her nails, like a miniature paint by number.

“I don’t know, maybe? Or maybe it’s every other nail. Or zebra pattern.” She turns her nose up at that. “Can you imagine? Zebra print nails? Disgusting.”

“I like the blue.” Even just says, and continues with his concentration on making sure very little nail polish gets on her skin.

“Yeah, it’s nice.” He thinks she’s looking at him, but he doesn’t dare look up. When he finally finishes, he sets the brush back into the little bottle, and looks at her, almost for approval. She holds her hands up, comparing them.

“How did I do?” She turns her hands around so he can see.

“Not bad for the first time. Really, I’m serious, you can barely tell you’ve never done it before. Barely any nail polish on my skin.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m a natural.” He gets a flush of _maybe I shouldn’t swear, I’m ‘not supposed to’_ but a moment passes,

“Fuck yeah, you are.” She replies. And, “Now I get to paint your nails.” It’s joking, and he scoffs at her,

“Absolutely not, no.” She’s grabbing for his hand, “Sonja!” It’s all in good fun, a playfulness that makes some of the weird feelings that he’s not entirely sure of yet go away, and it’s back to them just being friends and messing around.

“Just one nail, just one. Your pinkie, no one will even see.” It’s a moment, and she moves quickly to swipe the brush over the nail on his pinkie, and it catches most of the nail, but also the skin on either side as he pulls it away.

“Sonja, come on.” He mutters, frowning and tries to get the color off of his skin, but it just smears. Whatever, he’ll make the most of it. Holds up his pinkie next to his eyes. “Do they match?” She studies him for a moment, half serious, half faux-serious.

“I think your eyes are lighter. More like ━” She scrunches up her face in concentration a moment, screws the cap back on the nail polish, and gets up to put the two away, the light clatter of nail polish bottles rattling around as she searches for a different color. She apparently already has the entire rainbow.

“More like what?”

“Shh... give me a minute.” She back in less than a minute, “More like ... an icey blue, like this.” She holds up the bottle beside his face, “Yeah, more like this.” He doesn’t know what the look she gives him is, but it’s all cut short at her dad knocking on the doorframe, saying that he can take Even home now.

And he hides his hand with it’s smeared nail polish on his pinkie in the pocket of his jeans and then in the bunched up ends of the sleeves of his jacket as he sits awkwardly in the passenger seat of Sonja’s dad’s car, but he doesn’t want to be rude and take his phone out, so he just looks out the window, and stares at himself in the side mirror, trying to make out his face in the dark. He scrapes the nail polish off of his nail when he gets home, sitting on the side of the bathtub.

A week later he was at the drugstore, shoes scuffing on the floor in the makeup aisle, and he keeps looking at the end of the aisle in case someone he knows walks into view. In the end, he’s grabbing five different colors for Sonja, varying colors along the rainbow, and as a sudden impulse he grabs what he thinks is the same ice blue she showed him that “matches his eyes,” stares at it a minute. Puts it back. Grabs it again. Walks away with his nail polish bottles clacking in his hands and he feels really awkward, hoping that the chips and soda he also buys somehow masks the nail polish. It doesn’t, but the seventeen-year old girl who rings up his stuff doesn’t say anything but asks,

“Your sister couldn’t make up her mind about what color?” Trying to make light conversation,

“Uh ━ no, I ━ my ━ girlfriend ━ maybe ━ ” He doesn’t think he’s ever talked to an older girl before, and he’s stumbling over everything and very much feels fourteen and like he’s rushed and he’s fumbling with money, but he appreciates that the girl isn’t mean about it.

“Oh, cool. A good present, I think she’ll like it.” She puts everything in the same bag, and takes his money, gives him his receipt, and he thinks he mumbles out a _thank you_ somewhere along the way.

He gets home and before he can get embarrassed about it, he’s bothering his mom, asking if she has any gift bags, or tissue paper, and she gives him a look before rummaging around in her closet,

“What’s this about?”

“Sonja’s birthday.” She gives him a small bag, pink tissue paper,

“Isn’t that still like three weeks away?”

“Yeah, but I got her a present and I don’t want to lose it on accident.” There’s a look in his mom’s eyes that maybe says ‘aren’t you too young to think about dating?’ but also, ‘oh, that’s nice of you to do.’ and he doesn’t really know. He just grabs the gift bag and rushes out of the room. Wraps up the nail polish in the bag and sets it by his desk and hides the ice blue one in his suitcase in his closet. No one ever looks there.

He can’t sleep three nights later when he finally quietly climbs down from his bed, grabs the bottle of nail polish from the suitcase, and avoids all the parts of the floor that creak just a little bit in order to lock himself in the bathroom. Makes a face at himself in the mirror, and he doesn’t know why he feels like he has to do this in the dead of night, like it’s some horrible thing to put nail polish on his fingers.

He sets the bottle on the edge of the bathtub, and then sits down himself, and it’s almost like a staring contest with the stupid ice blue liquid.

“Coward.” He mutters, and he’s cracking open the bottle, trying to mimic how Sonja had made sure there wasn’t too much excess so it wouldn’t drip onto the bathtub. The pinkie of his left hand. Then his ring finger. Sets the brush back into the bottle. Stares at his hand for a while, thumb of his right hand following the curve of his nail on the skin beneath it. He doesn’t know how he feels about this.

And then he’s grabbing tissues, rubbing it off of his ring finger, getting up to put some soap on a tissue, getting the polish off the side of his nail. It’s like he’s been jerking off instead of putting nail polish on. He’d actually rather be jerking off in the bathroom in the middle of the night, honestly. That would be normal. Stares at his pinkie finger, still with the swipe of blue on it. Holds it up next to his eye, but he can’t quite tell if it matches or not. That’s not why he’s doing it, is it? Because Sonja said the color would match his eyes?

He stares into his own eyes, a mirror image of himself, and thinks that maybe he can find the answer in his own gaze. He can’t. He leaves the nail polish on his pinkie, but only because tomorrow is Saturday, and he’s not going anywhere. He sneaks back to his room, after bunching up the tissues that have the nail polish on them in the bottom of the garbage can in the bathroom. The nail polish goes back where it was before. He goes to sleep.

He Skypes with Mikael the next day, complaining about whatever they’re complaining about, and he keeps getting distracted by the smooth feeling of the nail polish under his finger where he keeps touching it, until he’s scraping it away with his other fingernails. Mikael notices that he’s not paying attention, comments on it, and he just says,

“Sorry, I didn’t sleep great last night, I’m just tired. What were you saying?” He moves to bunch the end of his hoodie in his hand. Focus on what Mikael’s talking about. Forget about why this is such a big deal.

He scrapes it all off before dinner and he’s afraid he’s going to accidentally rip his skin and make it bleed if he picks at the sides of nail anymore, so he figures it’s good enough, and neither of his parents notice anything. He’s going to throw away the bottle next week, in the most random garbage can he can find.

It rattles around in the inside pocket of his backpack for two days, because whenever he’s going to throw it away in the bathroom at school, someone comes in and he scrambles and looks really suspicious and he ducks away and out of the bathroom with the zipper of his backpack half open.

Normally he takes the tram home, but finally he decides to walk home and drop the bottle into a random garbage can. It’s going to be easy, he plans it all out; it sits in his jacket pocket after he transfers it from the pocket of his backpack. This way he can mix it in with the random junk that he has to throw away; an old assignment, a candy bar wrapper. No one will ever know. He dumps the balled up bunch of garbage into a garbage can before his hands bunch up in his jacket pockets and he’s walking quickly away

He thinks about it for way too long. He worries that maybe it means he’s a girl or that he wants to be a girl or ... something like that, but that doesn’t seem like it’s right, because he thinks about himself as a girl and he doesn’t like that.  (Looking back, he knew that gender identity was never a wavering thing; he might have had his ups and down about a million other things, but he knows he’s a boy. That’s easy, at least.) Or maybe, he thinks, it means he’s gay or something, but he doesn’t think that’s it either, because he’s still thinking about it six months later when he kisses Sonja for the first time, and he really likes _that_.

He google searches a hundred different ways about whether or not the fact that maybe he wants to paint his nails makes him gay. It doesn’t help. He has mixed reviews and a lot of very obvious homophobia and it makes him nervous and afraid and he clears his browser history. Lays and stares at his ceiling for a while with his laptop resting on his stomach, closed.

Then, he thinks, that maybe he doesn’t like it, he just did it because Sonja said that the color matched his eyes. That must be what it is. That’s all it is.

(That’s all it is, except, maybe he’s a little gay. Or ... no, he’s pansexual. That’s what he tells Mikael a month before his 16th birthday, in a flood of words and definitions and nervous tapping against his leg. Because he’s afraid of what Mikael’s going to say. But all Mikael says is   _okay_  and they go back to working on their homework and nothing changes. Because he’s dating Sonja, and that’s what it is.)

 

 

But he really doesn’t think about it again until the kid in front of him in Intro to Media Studies starts painting his nails and he’s fixated on it again. He thinks about it for two full weeks, until he finally mutters to the guy,

“Your nails look cool, dude.” And he’s grabbing his bag to go meet Isak, but he realizes that his sudden rush out of the room does make it seem more like a come on and he has to roll his eyes at himself. He’s supposed to be cool, chill, not a weirdo. All of his worries, all of his wandering mind calms down when he sees Isak, when he sees Isak’s smile.

And the next day, in the hour between when his last class ends, and Isak’s late class gets out, he’s standing in a drugstore again, staring at the nail polish. He’s quicker this time, and grabs black nail polish. And so the bottle of nail polish rattles around in his backpack for a week, in the outside zipper pocket, along with a new box of condoms, and five of Isak’s favorite flavor and brand of granola bars, just in case he forgets to eat lunch and collapses into the chair next to Even in the library and complains about how hungry he is. It happens twice in that week, and he would be able to laugh about a box of condoms falling out of his backpack in the middle of the library, but he would be less able to explain away nail polish. He hates that it’s still such a weird thing.

(He hates that he still has those shitty responses to “if I paint my nails and I’m a guy does that make me gay?” in his mind, and he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, because ... _Isak_ , and it’s not that he’s afraid of someone thinking he’s into men, because he clearly is. Very much so. Very much into Isak.)

And then he sits and thinks about what Isak would think, if it would make Isak uncomfortable because of like... girls paint their nails, so he doesn’t want Isak to be uncomfortable with intimacy if his nails are painted. He concludes that he’s being stupid and that nothing else about him is like a girl, so Isak wouldn’t be bothered. Or, he worries a little, that if he says something to Isak that Isak might get the wrong idea, because he’s been growing his hair out, not for any specific reason, but because he thinks it’s cool, and he likes it, and Isak’s hands can get a really good grip on his hair now, but that’s ━ that’s not the point, here. He doesn’t want Isak to think he wants to be a girl or something, that’s not what he’s doing. It’s not that. He just likes his hair longer and he maybe wants to paint his nails occasionally.

And he’s pissed off at himself because he doesn’t let things like this bother him anymore, not this much. He doesn’t sit around for weeks and think about this kind of stuff, instead trying to just figure himself out day by day. (Or... minute by minute.)

He’s sitting on their couch, watching Isak tap his eraser against his notebook, his back to Even so that he’ll get distracted less easily, and Even is supposed to be working on his own homework, but he’s been very much in his own mind the last week, he keeps getting distracted when he’s reading or trying to take notes.

“I can feel you staring.” Isak finally says, “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He can feel Isak’s eyes roll.

“Yeah, right.” A pause.

“Can you take a break?”

“Ten minutes? Let me just finish this section.”

“Yeah.” They lapse back into silence. Even doesn’t know why it’s such a big deal, the little bottle of nail polish still sitting in his backpack. Maybe it’s a bunch of things, and maybe it _is_ a little bit of worry that Isak might not like it. And he doesn’t even totally know if he likes it, maybe it’s just cool on other people and he’ll look dumb or he won’t like it. But he thinks, after _what_ , three? four? weeks of thinking about it?  (Seven years of thinking about it, actually, if he wants to be real about it.)  He wants to at least try it. And him and Isak do enough that he’s not really worried Isak’s going to make fun of him or something, he’s just caught up in his thoughts, that’s what he’s going to tell himself. He’s caught up in his own thinking that causes him to overthink, overreact, and he’s just going to sit here and not worry. He’s going to write a paragraph of his essay, and then Isak will be to the end of the section, and they can talk.

“Alright, done.” Isak sets his pencil down as if he’s finished a test, turns toward Even, and it makes Even smile. And he’s less caught in his head, legs swinging off of the couch, and he’s reaching into his bag to pull out the bottle of nail polish. It fits, hides fully in his hand as he gets up, and Isak is giving him a skeptical look as he sits down across from Isak. “You aren’t proposing right now, are you?” Isak glances from his clenched hand up to his face, back down to his hand, back up to his face.

“What? No, no. You think I’d propose here? No, it’s going to be in Paris or something.” Isak immediately relaxes,

“Paris?” He still questions,

“I don’t know, I ━ I don’t know, where do you want me to? Madrid? New York City? Hawaii? I don’t know.” He hadn’t thought this would start with a conversation about where he’s going to propose to Isak, because he hasn’t really thought of that.

“I don’t know.” Isak just says, and Even bites his tongue a moment, before his hand unfolds and he’s setting the nail polish between them. Isak has seemingly forgotten the proposal talk, instead studying Even, the small bottle, Even again with such an _Isak_ look, it makes his chest warm. He’s trying to understand Even before he says anything. But waits for Even to speak first.

“Fuck, this is so stupid.” Even mutters, shifts a bit in his chair, “Fuck.” Pushing his hair out of his face, back behind his ears. Isak’s watching him with curious eyes, like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know quite what to say.  “So, okay, would it be weird for you if I ━ painted my nails?” Saying it quickly, just so it’s all out there. Or at least, some of it.

“What do you mean?”

“I wouldn’t want to do it and then make you uncomfortable because like ... girls ... paint their nails.” Isak’s squinting like he’s trying to understand what Even means. “And I didn’t want to like make things weird if you like ... like if you got turned off by nail polish or something, I don’t know. This is dumb, fuck.” He feels utterly stupid trying to explain his train of thought.

“No, it’s not dumb.” Isak’s saying, and he’s still trying to read Even, “Keep going?” Like he wants Even to get all of his thoughts out on the table before Isak offers any sway because of his own opinion.

“Like lots of guys paint their nails, like ...” Oh, he’s at a dead end now, “Harry Styles, you know? He paints his nails. And everyone loves him. Everyone thinks he’s cool.” Isak really is looking at him almost confused.

“You don’t have to ... justify something you want to do or try.” Isak tells him, a moment of contemplation.

“What if I don’t like it?” _You scrub it off with your nails in the bathroom at three in the morning_.

“You take it off. You bought nail polish _remover_ , right?” Fuck, he hadn’t thought of that. His silence gives him away. “You didn’t?” Isak’s smiling, a bit of a laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t buy nail polish remover?”

“I didn’t think about it.” He shrugs, “I bought condoms.” Isak has an almost stunned smile plastered on his face.

“You bought black nail polish and condoms?”

“Yeah, and those granola bars you like.”

“But not nail polish remover?”

“No.” Isak’s laughing, he’s laughing, and it’s a hundred times less awkward and he’s a hundred times less concerned. Isak’s hands cover his face a minute, muffling his laughter, and he’s just shaking his head at Even a moment, when his hands move away.

“God, I love you so much.” Even finds himself smiling, “But, okay. Back to this.” A vague gesture at the nail polish, at Even. “You can do whatever you want.” It’s stated as such a simple fact, and, really, Even knew that this was going to be Isak’s reaction. “I never got a handjob from like some girl with nail polish on, so it’s not like ━ that’s not a problem. They’re your hands, you get to do whatever you want. If you like it, you like it, that’s cool, you’ve found something cool you like. And if you don’t? I can go down to the corner store and buy nail polish remover.  I mean, I’m going to anyway, since you decided condoms were more important than nail polish remover, but ...”

“They’re very important.” Even states. Isak rolls his eyes, and Even gets up, Isak following his movements, and he’s crouching down beside his backpack, grabbing the two extra granola bars and unopened box of condoms and bringing them back and depositing them on top of Isak’s books. “For you.”

“They’ve just been _in your backpack?_ ” Isak gapes at him as he sits back down.

“Yeah.” Like it’s a completely normal place. Isak’s eyes roll again, but he’s grabbing one of the granola bars, tearing open the packaging. Even’s hand grabs the nail polish, rolls it around on the table a bit.

“Thanks for the granola bars, though.”

“I tried it once, before.” Isak takes a bite of the granola bar, letting Even speak as he wants to. Even purses his lips a moment, “I was like ...” He’s trying to count back the years, “Fourteen? Yeah, fourteen.” Isak nods, continues eating. “I was at Sonja’s, and she was painting her nails, and we were messing around, and she painted just like my pinkie, and it was all like a joke and stuff, but I don’t know, I thought it might be cool.” He feels hot with embarrassment, and he hates himself for it. He’s never said this to anyone, and it’s another one of the things that fall under how he would tell Isak everything, anything he wanted to know, so long as he had time.  “No one knew but us, and I scraped it off like as soon as I got home,” And he always feels a bit weird talking about Sonja to Isak, so there’s a lot of feelings floating around inside his head.

“What color?” Isak asks, instead of laughing at him, or laughing at fourteen-year old him’s fears.

“Blue.” Isak smiles a little, and takes another bit of the granola bar. Like it’s a completely normal conversation. “And I,” A sigh, “Well, I was buying her a birthday present, because we weren’t dating yet, and I liked her, and I wanted to get her a present, and so I was buying her nail polish because I thought she’d like it, and so I just ... bought one for myself. Because I wanted to see if I thought it was cool.”

“What color was that one?”

“Blue.” Isak’s still smiling, “You seem to have a type.” A flash of his eyes down before he returns his gaze to Even’s. “Why the black, this time?”

“Something different?”

“Okay.” His smile curves up a bit more on one side. “Cool.” He doesn’t seem too bothered by talk of Sonja, or maybe he’s just hiding it well. It’s not like Sonja is a danger to their relationship; they’re steady, and sturdy.

“I was really embarrassed about it. Probably more worried about my mom finding that than like ... anything else she could have caught me doing.” Isak raises his eyebrows at him, biting back a teasing grin, and he has to shrug and grin back. “I only did it the once, at like three in the morning and I only painted two fingers.” The bottle of nail polish sets back down on the table, and he’s holding up his hand, point to his pinkie, his ring finger. “But I washed it all off right away, or ... I kept the bit on my pinkie for maybe twelve hours but I got worried or embarrassed or something and I scraped it off before my mom could see.” Isak just takes all his words in, and just listens. “I threw it away on like a random street on the way home from school because I didn’t want anyone to see.” Isak has finished the granola bar, and tries not to make too much noise with the wrapper, flattening it out.

“Being fourteen is like .. the worst.” Isak brushes a hand over his lips, making sure there’s no crumbs on his face. “It just ... fucking sucked.” He shrugs, bites the inside of his lip, “Everyone’s trying to be their own person but also be like everyone else and it’s just awful.” There’s a very deliberate way in how Isak sits now, trying not to let himself slump down into himself, slump back into the mindset of being fourteen.

“I’m really glad I’m not fourteen anymore.”

“Yeah.” Isak scoffs. And Even doesn’t want to talk about the stuff he read online, because he knows. He _knows_ that Isak has seen some of the same things. Maybe not relating to this exact topic, but he _knows_ Isak has seen some parts of the bad side of humanity, and he doesn’t want to bring up any of those memories, those feelings. A minute of silence, “Why didn’t you ever try again?” Isak asks, and he knows that he’s fully able to say he doesn’t want to say anything more, and Isak will be chill with it. But he really wants to say all this to someone. Someone who might understand.

“I kind of freaked out about it.” A sigh, “First, I was afraid that if I liked it or something it meant I was a girl, which wasn’t right, because I’m not a girl,” A deep inhale, a long exhale, “so...” His hands find each other, playing with his fingers nervously, “And then I was really afraid that it made me gay or something which was a pretty terrifying to fourteen year old me, and fifteen year old me. And it was pretty scary to look up like ... if it made me gay ... like online... and see some of the responses to like forum things.”

Isak looks at him for a while, eyes tracing around Even’s features, and he’s trying to stay steady so Isak can look, so Isak can react to his words.

“Nail polish doesn’t make someone gay. I’m gay because ━ I want to fuck guys. Or ━” A bit of a shrug when Even’s eyebrows raise, “One guy. You.” It makes him smile, biting back a bigger smile, “That’s the one criteria.”  Even wishes he could tell fourteen-year old him this, or maybe be able to talk to fourteen-year old Isak and help him, or help both of them. But they’re here, now, and they don’t have to think about being fourteen anymore. “Only criteria.” Even slouches a bit in his chair, foot finding the rung on the side of the chair, knee bending up.

“Being fourteen is the worst.” He says, echoing Isak’s words. Isak nods, agrees again. “I don’t know. I think that’s it.” He finally says, after they sit and stare at each other for another minute. Isak bites his lip for a moment, eyes tracking from Even’s eyes, down a little, back up.

“Do you want me to paint your nails?” Isak asks, already clearing his books away a little, grabbing the box of condoms that still sits there, tossing them across the room to the couch, folding up books and notebooks and setting them by his feet in a haphazard pile. Even hesitates a little, “We don’t have to right now. Or, I mean, you don’t have to. But if you wanted, I would help. I can’t say I’d be great at it, but it might be easier than using your non-dominant hand to paint your right hand, you know? Isn’t that ━” _something that girls do_. Except they’re not going to do that. No stupid gender shit here.

“Yeah, yeah. If you want.” Isak looks unexpectedly happy about this. “I think I’d like to do it right now.” Even decides.

“Totally. Plus, study breaks are good. If you try to cram everything into your brain at the same time, then none of it gets in there, and then you sit in exams and just remember _nothing_.” He’s talking as he reaches for the nail polish, opening it carefully. “And I need to do as well as I can, you know? So I can keep my scholarships. So, that’s really important. I need breaks and to spend time with my boyfriend.” Even sets his hands flat on the table so Isak can paint the nails. “I don’t know how to do this.” Isak says, after a moment.

“Here, I can try to show you?” He watched Sonja apply nail polish dozens of times throughout the years, not just the one time, and the times where Sonja’s girl friends weren’t around to assist, he had helped her a few times. Isak slides the bottle over to him. Even carefully lifts the brush, wiping off the excess, and his left hand curls up a bit so he can best brush the polish over the nail on his thumb, trying his best to not get any color on his skin, but it gets there anyway, a touch of it on the end of his finger, but it doesn’t matter. He does it carefully, and he can feel Isak’s ever-learning eyes on his movements. Sets the brush back in the bottle when he finishes with his thumb.

“Alright, easy.” Isak declares, and he takes the bottle back, and Even can’t keep the smile off his face (though, he can never stop smiling around Isak) as he watches Isak’s careful movements, and his careful taking of Even’s hand so he can move his fingers to how he thinks it will work the best. Even lets Isak maneuver his hand however he wants. It’s quiet as Isak focuses on painting the nails on Even’s left hand. And it gives Even time to just relish in _looking_ at Isak. The way his lips part a little in concentration. The curl of his hair falling into a perfect crescent moon shape in the middle of his forehead.

Isak looks up at him, smiling, when he switches hands, doesn’t say anything, just sets the brush back in the bottle, and lays Even’s hand flat on the table, takes his other hand, and leans over and starts painting those nails, too. The quiet of Isak’s concentration makes him remember, like he does seemingly every hour, of how much he loves Isak. His immediate chillness with Even wanting nail polish on his fingernails. His focus on doing this for Even so that it looks nice instead of messy. How he always thinks of things that Even should have remembered, but it slipped his mind in how fast his brain moves sometimes. He really should have bought nail polish remover.

“Done.” Isak says, the brush going back into the bottle, and he screws the cover back on. “Is there supposed to be a second coat or something when that dries?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and he’s letting both of his hands rest flat on the table. “I don’t think it matters that much.” It really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need to be perfect or nail salon levels of done. It’s nicer that Isak did this for him. He doesn’t want to mess up any of it, carefully moving his hands so that his nails don’t brush against his skin and smear the polish.

“What do you think?” Isak asks.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t, not yet. But he wants to keep it on, at least for a while. Just to see how he feels about it. “You did a good job.” Isak grins at that, and he’s standing, moving around the table to duck down and kiss Even. Quickly, because if they kiss too much, Even is going to forget about his nails and grab at Isak and ruin them.

“I know enough about nail polish to know that you can’t touch anything for a bit.” Isak straightens back up, “Which means...” Isak pauses, and Even’s chin stays lifted so he can look at him, eyebrows raised, “I’m cooking tonight.” Eyebrows raise a little bit more,

“What are you making?”

“I’m not sure, yet. I’m going to check what we have.” And he’s moving away to the kitchen, and Even knows exactly what cupboards he’s looking in because of how each of the cabinet doors creaks.  But Even’s focus is on his hands, carefully inspecting all of his fingers, careful to not touch the polish to check if it’s dry. He knows it’s not. He doesn’t want to ruin Isak’s hard work.

There’s the sound of a pan on the stove, the fridge opens, closes. Isak has clearly made a decision about what he’s cooking, and he stares at his hands for a few more minutes before he’s standing. Walking into the kitchen to watch Isak cook. Like Isak does when he cooks.

“Any first impressions?” Isak asks it so casually he could he talking about anything, casually as he’s still trying to find that one spoon they have that he prefers to use when he’s cooking. Even leans against the counter, just watching for a little.

“Still not sure.” Is his answer. A strand of his hair has fallen into his face and he can’t push it out of his face right now. Settles for trying to blow it out of the way. Isak notices. Of course, Isak notices, and he’s setting things down, moving over to Even. Gently moving the strand of hair out of Even’s eyes. Hands on both sides of Even’s face, gently brush his hair behind his ears so it stays out of his face until his nails dry.

“Alright.” Isak nods, before he’s moving back to talk a bit as he cooks. Isak’s familiar movements, his voice, give a safe background for him to keep staring at his hands, studying them. And Isak doesn’t say anything about how he kind of tunes him out, introspective, but he’s tapping lightly at the polish when Isak’s plating their food, and it’s dry enough, he decides, that he doesn’t have to worry that holding a fork is going to smudge it.

After they eat, it’s back to homework, but first, Isak asking,

“Put this away somewhere?” Offering the nail polish bottle to Even. Up to him where he’s going to put it. It feels weird, like he has the choice to hide it in the back of the sock drawer or put it on his shelf with his movies or ... He decides on the medicine cabinet, on the shelf below his meds. When he gets back, Isak is already immersed back in his homework, and he risks an annoyed Isak to press a kiss against the top of Isak’s head as he moves back to his spot on the couch.

When they’re laying in bed later, trying to fall asleep, Isak takes his hand, rests each of Even’s fingers on his own index finger, rubbing his thumb over the smooth polish on each of Even’s fingernails.

“I think it’s cool.” Isak tells him. “You look cool with it. I mean, you always kind of look cool. But this is like, a different cool.” His hand moves to interlock his fingers with Even’s. And Even can’t quite see his face well in the dark of their bedroom, and the dark of the night, but he feels like Isak’s eyes are seeking out affirmation that it’s okay he said what he said.

“I like it.” He tells Isak. “I think. I’m ... ninety percent sure. Not all the time, but sometimes.” He’s a little nervous because he works the next afternoon, but when he wakes up in the morning, and goes to take his meds, take a shower, the works, there’s a bottle of nail polish remover next to the bottle of nail polish. Isak knows, of _course_ , Isak knows. And he gives him an out where this can be just a thing he does at home. It’s funny, because Isak is still sleeping, half-draped onto Even’s side of the bed where Even extracted himself from Isak’s embrace. So he could make breakfast. Start coffee.

When Isak comes shuffling out of the bedroom, he’s received with a deep kiss, one that says, _thank you for waking up at probably four in the morning and buying nail polish remover, i could have gone myself, but thank you for doing things for me, i love you, thank you_. Or... something like that.

Even decides to keep the nail polish on when he goes to work, nervous the whole time, but no one really says anything. He doesn’t think most people even notice, focused on their own responsibilities.

And he goes to his Intro to Media Studies class on Monday, the kid who sits in front of him turns around before class starts, to show Even his nails.

“What do you think?” They’re royal purple this week.

“Cool.” Even answers, and it’s an awkward moment, before he’s shifting his hands from his sleeves, to show the boy, “My boyfriend painted mine this weekend.” He gets a grin in return, and a compliment to pass along to Isak,

“He’s good at it. They look nice.” Class is starting, and so he has to turn back around, but Even’s less nervous about his hands for the rest of the day. And the rest of the week.

He wears it until it all chips off, not caring that it’s chipped, because he thinks there’s a certain art to chipped nail polish, so he just lets it fall off at its own rate. And a month later, him and Isak stand in the aisle of the drugstore and stare at the array of colors.

“I get why you just got the black.” Isak tells him, and Even laughs.

“Maybe I shouldn’t get anything else, maybe I should just use that one up.” Isak shrugs,

“Whatever you want.” But they’re here for a reason, because Even thought he might want a different color this time. “It’s not that expensive.”

“I don’t know what color.” Isak hums a pensive sound and scrunches his face up in consideration.

“I’m going to guess that you don’t want neon colors?” That rules out a bunch of the bottles. He nods in agreement. That’s too much. “Alright, no neon.” Isak turns towards him, examining him like he’s trying to figure out the color that would go best with Even’s lips or his skin or the undertones of his hair.

“What are you thinking?”

“You trust me?” Isak asks back, and Even nods. “Turn around. I’m going to choose two of them, and put them behind my back, and then you choose a hand, and that’s the one we get.” Seems like a good enough way to pick a color as any. So Even turns around. Isak looks for a number of minutes, it’s not like Even is counting the seconds in his mind. He totally isn’t.

“Have you picked some yet?”

“No, not yet. Be patient.” Isak is taking this seriously, and Even spends a minute fiddling with his hands before he moves a bit, to the other side of the aisle to fiddle with products and occupy his mind for a few minutes. “Okay.” Isak finally says.

Even turns back around, and faces Isak. Isak, whose face gives away nothing about what the colors are or which one he prefers or anything. Even takes a few steps closer, and stares at Isak thoughtfully. Isak stares back.

“Choose a hand.” Isak tells him. His hands are behind his back. Even taps on Isak’s left shoulder, indicating that hand. “I fucking knew it.” Isak tells him, his hand coming from around his back to reveal a baby pink bottle of nail polish, and Even just stares dumbfounded.

“How did you know?”

“I’m a genius, remember?” Even has to know,

“What’s the other one?” He takes the pink one from Isak’s hand as Isak’s other hand comes around to reveal, of all fucking colors, _baby blue_ . The same goddamn color Sonja painted her nails that one night. Fucking ... _fate_. Circle of life. Whatever. He just stares at Isak for what seems to be forever. And then bursts out laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Isak asks, confused. He moves to put the blue nail polish back on the shelf.

“I’ve made this choice before.” He tells Isak, who still looks confused. “I told you, Sonja, you know? Weird, fourteen-year old flirting, but she had me choose. What color for her to paint her nails, and I chose that blue. And the other choice was this.” He shakes the pink a little. “Or, I don’t know if it’s the exact colors, I’m not a nail polish expert, but it’s close enough for it to be some weird sign or ... the universe doing something.”

“Do you want the pink? Or is it weird?” Isak asks after a pause.

“No, I like it.” A moment, “Will you do it again?”

“Yeah, of course.” Isak answers, immediately. “I have to make sure my boyfriend looks his best, you know? We only accept well-applied nail polish in this household.” Even lips spread wide in a smile at _household_ , because it sounds so much more solid and _more_ than just them saying they’re boyfriends. They live together, and they have all kinds of _household-type responsibilities_. And Isak just said that in the fucking makeup aisle in a drugstore. “Come on, we have to buy condoms, too.” He tugs on Even’s elbow a little, before, a little too eagerly, going to grab condoms, to grab the few other things they need that are easy to pick up here.

“Why the condoms, also?” Even asks as they’re walking back home.

“It’s tradition, Even. It’s a thing now. You bought them last time, and so now we’re just going to buy nail polish and condoms in one trip.”

Isak paints his nails again, carefully, with steadfast concentration, and this time, they’re sitting by window in their bedroom.

It has become a thing, him and the guy who sits in front of him in Intro to Media Studies. Showing each other painted nails. Or, more often, he shows Even. Even likes to wear the polish until it all falls off. He shows him the pale pink, and he shows Even a deep evergreen color. And Even asks him if he wants to come to a party on Friday with him and Isak and a few of Isak’s friends. He says _sure, can he bring his girlfriend_? And Even says he can bring whoever he wants. He’s just passing along an invitation. And then at the end of class, an invitation for them to come pre-game at his and Isak’s. And an exchange of contact info, and he has a for-sure new friend. It’s cool. The pre-game goes well, and the party goes well, even if he and Isak pull their all-too-familiar move, at this point, where they leave early to go home, instead of opting for the half-privacy of a bedroom in a random person’s house.

They’re settling down for sleep, hearts still racing a little, brushes of sweat under their bangs because they’re too tired to shower now, instead having opted for wiping down as much as they can, and Isak is threading their fingers together.

“I do really like it.” He tells Even, thumb sliding over the nail polish, again. “On you, I mean. It’s not for me. But I like it on you.” It answers a silent, and maybe not even fully-formed question that was resting in the back of Even’s head; whether or not Isak might want to try it. Answer: no. And that’s totally chill. Isak can just keep picking out colors for him, and use his concentration to paint it onto Even’s fingernails.

“I like it on me, too.” Even answers. And it feels nice to have confirmation that Isak likes it, and it’s nice to know that he can like it, and it’s nice to feel comfortable in himself, more and more, so that he can do things like this. Like paint his nails.

If he had a time machine, he thinks he would only do two things: First, would be to figure out a way to tell fourteen-year old him that it was okay if he wanted to paint his nails, because, while it wasn’t really a big thing, not _really_ , it’s nice to be able to, now. Second, he would want to somehow help Isak when Isak was younger. How? He’s not sure. Maybe as a ghost or ... he doesn’t know... something, there must be some way he could have helped.

Or maybe not, and maybe that’s why time machines don’t exist, because there’s no way to change the past, not really. If he changes the past, maybe they don’t end up here.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He thinks Isak can hear his mind whirling, sometimes, and Isak knows there’s fifty steps that took Even from _nail polish_ to _i’m glad you’re here_. Isak’s fingers just tighten a little around Even’s hand. “I know I tell you this all the time, but I love you, a lot. More than I can really say.” Saying it a lot doesn’t diminish feelings, he just can’t ever stop himself from saying it.

“I love you.” Isak tells him, and it always feels like the first time he said it; it always knocks the air out of Even’s lungs. “More than _I_ can say.”

And, yes, Even realizes, that the universe has stopped time machines from being invented, because if he could go back in time and try to save himself from the dark stuff he’s been through, or if he tried to save Isak, they wouldn’t be here, right now, and that scares him more than anything else. Everything leads to these moments with Isak, moments with Isak that mean more than everything else, moments which he would walk through fire to have.


End file.
